


Harry Potter and the Druids

by Lurker2



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Norse Religion & Lore, Snow-Walker - Catherine Fisher, The Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley
Genre: I actually like Romans too, Inspired by Mists of Avalon, Inspired by the Snow-Walker Series, Magic is partially sentient, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reference to the Snow-Walker series, Runes, Study of Ancient Runes (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:14:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22844647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurker2/pseuds/Lurker2
Summary: Inspired by this prompt:The magic taught at Hogwarts is exclusively Roman-style magic. Muggleborns are the native Celtic/Druidic magics' attempt to find new practitioners.PromptThe mages of the Roman Empire were smug in the perceived superiority of their magic over "barbarian practices", happily ignoring the non-magical contribution of the Legions in subjugating new provinces. They also despised any magic they couldn't use or control, and so did everything they could to stamp out other magical traditions everywhere the Empire went.In Britain, as in much of Europe, they were phenomenally successful. The magical culture they seeded grew to utterly dominate British magic. Its hold only tightened with the founding of Hogwarts, which taught all young British witches and wizards in the Roman tradition. By the enactment of the Statute of Secrecy, Roman-style magic was so dominant that the nearly-forgotten native magics were blanketly forbidden as Dark.Magic, however, is not so easily controlled by mortal whims. The Magic of Britain, guided by the Tuatha de Danann, soon responded to its lack of practitioners by reaching out to the minds of young magicals, whispering to them the secrets of the old ways. Very few could hear these whispers, deafened by their belief that magic as they knew it was all of magic, and even fewer would listen.If those born of wizards couldn't hear or wouldn't listen, then more open minds would need to be found; magic was increasingly gifted to children of ordinary folk. Some of these "Muggle-borns" began to touch the magics of the Isles, but when this was discovered by those of long magical lineage they were condemned.It has been centuries since anyone dared practice the Old Ways openly, and only the barest few even do so in secret. Lily Potter was one such, with her strong gifts and her open mind, and it was this that allowed her to empower her love enough to turn back even the deadliest of curses. The Dursleys' determined ordinariness coupled with the wards set by Albus Dumbledore (who knew and disapproved of Lily's practices) cut her son off from this aspect of his birthright, but now something has changed, and he will discover that magic is so much more than he knew...
Kudos: 15





	1. Lily's Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt:
> 
> The magic taught at Hogwarts is exclusively Roman-style magic. Muggleborns are the native Celtic/Druidic magics' attempt to find new practitioners.  
> Prompt  
> The mages of the Roman Empire were smug in the perceived superiority of their magic over "barbarian practices", happily ignoring the non-magical contribution of the Legions in subjugating new provinces. They also despised any magic they couldn't use or control, and so did everything they could to stamp out other magical traditions everywhere the Empire went.
> 
> In Britain, as in much of Europe, they were phenomenally successful. The magical culture they seeded grew to utterly dominate British magic. Its hold only tightened with the founding of Hogwarts, which taught all young British witches and wizards in the Roman tradition. By the enactment of the Statute of Secrecy, Roman-style magic was so dominant that the nearly-forgotten native magics were blanketly forbidden as Dark.
> 
> Magic, however, is not so easily controlled by mortal whims. The Magic of Britain, guided by the Tuatha de Danann, soon responded to its lack of practitioners by reaching out to the minds of young magicals, whispering to them the secrets of the old ways. Very few could hear these whispers, deafened by their belief that magic as they knew it was all of magic, and even fewer would listen.
> 
> If those born of wizards couldn't hear or wouldn't listen, then more open minds would need to be found; magic was increasingly gifted to children of ordinary folk. Some of these "Muggle-borns" began to touch the magics of the Isles, but when this was discovered by those of long magical lineage they were condemned.
> 
> It has been centuries since anyone dared practice the Old Ways openly, and only the barest few even do so in secret. Lily Potter was one such, with her strong gifts and her open mind, and it was this that allowed her to empower her love enough to turn back even the deadliest of curses. The Dursleys' determined ordinariness coupled with the wards set by Albus Dumbledore (who knew and disapproved of Lily's practices) cut her son off from this aspect of his birthright, but now something has changed, and he will discover that magic is so much more than he knew...

_Child,_ the magic whispered faintly, curled around the young man but barely heard. _You can make better wards then that by binding to the land, the soil, the blood of the land._ The young man in question barely heard it, having long learned to never listen to any voices not his own. He trusted Hermione to provide adequate protection to the tent and at any rate, it was hardly his area of expertise. He was less stubborn in following his impulses however, and found himself absentmindedly tracing runes with his want. _There, that's better,_ the land seemed to hum, as fog was created in a wide area around them, and cold tongues seemed to lick his hair. And face. Harry shivered and went in, but not before making the symbols into stone and carving some into the trees -although covered so it would be invisible to others-. For a few seconds he thought he saw Lily, and a cauldron and a small fireplace and pillars with runes and symbols. Then he blinked and it was gone.

On the ground, there was a letter. It hadn't been there before, Harry was sure of it. On the letter was what might have been blood and it looked very very old. He opened it automatically.

_Dear Harry,_

_If you read this, you have discovered my legacy. Which probably means Dumbledore's protection wasn't enough. Bugger. I'm so sorry, Harry, for not being there. For not seeing you grow up and kill that dark bastard. I'm even sorry I won't be seeing Dumbledore's patented 'I told you so' look. I hope he hasn't cut you off from the Magic's voice. He means well, he really does, but he never trusted what he can't fully understand, and he always thought runes were unreliable as the main protection. Might interfere with the newer magic, he always said. We let him do his thing and on his request used as little Old Magic as possible. He does not know the little ritual we performed last night, but I'd imagine he suspects, considering the circumstances. Our final protection. He has never approved of my brand of magic and was most vehemently against blood magic. Frankly, I do not blame him. It really_ is _a last resort. I'll bet he'll be so_ angry _at the magic for failing to protect us. I hope you'll never see a angry Dumbledore, Harry. It truly is a sight for the nightmares. And I hope he still put you with my sister and nephew, because otherwise you'll be lucky to make it to your tenth birthday, let alone Hogwarts. She'll - I'm honestly not sure what she'll do. Dumbledore hopes she'll treat you like a son, but seeing pictures of Dudley I almost hope she doesn't. In all seriousness, I hope she treats you well and will not let old grudges get in the way. She has lost so much... she used to want magic, did you know? Even sent Dumbledore a letter. I'll bet she secretly read my spell-books too, before deciding she didn't want_ anything _to do with it and marrying the biggest bore she could find out of protest._

 _You probably don't know much about runes if you find this, but it's very important for your survival that you do. They do teach some at Hogwarts (where I hope you'll go) but it's not unlike learning magic from Disneyfilms._ (Harry snorted wetly at that. He better not tell Hermione that) _I suppose a explanation is in order. The magic you learn at Hogwarts isn't the be-all-end-all of magic. In the days of old it was apprentice-based and if you had the aptitude, you could continue to Avalon. But before that, priests and priestresses selected their novices by themselves and took them to Avalon. This was before the protections where in place and anyone could still visit them. Girls where more often chosen because they where seen as the spare so parents would be more likely to allow it. It was a respectable job, being a Healer from Avalon. People_ knew _you and you gained more respect than solely being married to someone. Naturally, the novices didn't believe in magic but in tricks and herbs and they didn't need tea-leaves to see either. The best saw the events of the day in a muddy pool, or a pudding. Tea-leaves were for novices to focus (unfortunately it became a crutch for most). But the High-Priestesses showed them magic to heal small cuts and mend bones if they saw the potential to be used_ only _if they could get away with it. This was the first milestone for most. Then, of course, they learned more. Mostly all-purpose stuff, thought some focused on certain types of magic; wards, woods, healing, things like that._

 _They didn't use wants. Believe it or not, back then almost everyone was wandless. Then the Romans came. We had_ not _seen this coming. I dream of then sometimes, you know. Even thought I never saw them. How they rape the women before killing them. How they shoot the men in the back, my love in a past live one of them. They said we had to pray to their gods, but we could also pray to ours - as long as we did that in addition to theirs (Then even that changed and suddenly there was only one god, but that's another story). They saw_ all _wandless magic as wrong and 'primitive'. The Wand-bearers spread among us like a virus. You know how it goes; they got high positions, married native women and so on. Magic is fairly sentient. It kept the memories from that time but it obeyed the wand-bearers just as well. Wands were for the nobles, back then; a status-symbol more than a tool. It was much,_ much _later that they became common._ (Harry saw (imagined?) young men using knifes and swords as foci, scratching runes and bewitching them. There was a icy plain and a three-pointed spear involved, thought he couldn't really see the connection, and a young boy with hair white as snow, before he returned on his campsite) _When they did, the Romans had already fallen and much more from the elite became common, like wine and a better infrastructure. There came more churches and, slowly but surely, less respect for the Healers of Avalon. More fathers preferred to send their daughters to convents/priories instead. (Later still, we were all hidden and couldn't openly go looking for apprentices anymore, but some came to us. Every year there were fewer, until one day, a High-priestess died without successor. Then Merlin went out into the world, and found Arthur, Arthur who betrayed his promise to follow Avalon and died. And he was the last one.)  
Oh, why am I telling you all this? I suppose I feel that some of the history must be kept and passed on and I'm afraid my dear sister -and she is dear to me, despite her pettiness and jealousy towards me when alive- would thoroughly have numbed you towards it. I know I should focus on the important part, and that is this: Harry, **all magic requires sacrifice**. _

_All spells, no matter how small or standardized, require you to put something of yourself in it, a signature if you will._

'Harry?' A voice came from outside the tent, and he realized that it was late and he should help Hermione with dinner, even thought he'd rather finish this letter. For a moment, it had been as if his mum was alive and reading this to him, whispering about High-priestesses and wandless magic. Now it was gone, the spell broken by reality. He got up. Hermione had lit a purple fire already and silently he went out the wards to find food. 

The woods were dark already, and there weren't many animals around. Far away, a black bird flew up and towards him. Driven by instinct, he moved his arm as if throwing a spear. The bird fell, near a couple of bushes with berries. He picked most of them, but didn't touch the mushrooms nearby. Much as he wanted to, he knew that even if they weren't poisonous, they would only end up tasting almost, but not quite, like real mushrooms under Hermione's cooking (although she was getting better - fish was actually starting to taste like fish again, and she _insisted_ on learning how to cook, which was the only reason Harry hadn't taken over yet. That, and her frown in concentration was actually rather adorable, reminding him of potion-lessons gone by (and God, he never thought he'd ever miss _those_ ).

He'd have to teach her how to pluck it, he thought, as he headed back to the protective circle (he thought he could hear his mom's voice telling him all circles were protective, either protecting you from outside influences or trapping something in it and choked up despite himself). 

Later, after they had plucked it together and put it in the ash to heat up, he told her about the letter. 'Oh Harry,' she said and suddenly he couldn't stand the pity in her eyes and looked into the fire, anywhere but there... They went to bed early. He could hear Hermione tossing and turning and knew that later, she might sob under the blanket but they'd both pretend he didn't hear that. He never told he how sometimes, when he was _absolutely sure_ she was asleep, he'd rub her back and she'd curl up around him, sobbing in his chest. Even more heartbreaking were the moments she'd call out for Ron to come back and with a painful lurch of his heart he'd be reminded of just how much Ron meant to her. (Not that Ron didn't mean a lot to him. Sometimes he dreamt of him too, and those were rather more... straightforward. He hoped Hermione never heard what he said in his sleep.)

As a distraction, he grabbed the letter and continued reading where he left of.

 _That's how_ Priori Incantatum _works, in case you hadn't guessed that. It's not necessarily the_ user _who leaves a mark; it's the unique combination of the core and the woods that leaves it's mark, nowadays. It's still the same principle, but it enables you to dodge or forge your signature. A loophole in magic. Wandless magic won't allow that, but it has a lot of advantages. Wards are keyed in to_ you, _not your wand, which means that you haven't locked yourself out if you lose it, and nobody can just steal your wand and enter the warded place, for instance. And of course you can weave it into clothes, as one of the Peverellbrothers found out (What, you didn't_ really _think it was gifted by Death, did you? Lovely chap,Ignotus, but he wasn't the type to let truth get in the way of a good story). And swords, but I'm sure you know that already, the story of the priestess singing over the runes of protection and the sheath of healing (not that it did Arthur any good when it was his time. Made him a King though, didn't it?  
  
_ _Know the runes and know them well; Algiz and Eihwaz for protection and Defence, Ansez for a message in your time of need, Tyr for a warrior or the power to defend, EHWAZ for a horse, movement, improving, Raidho for a journey on horseback and THURISAZ for a gateway/portal._

Harry saw them drawn carefully with their names and arrows which strengthened which and remembered Hermione had mixd Eiwaz and Ewaz up once. With a faint smile he began to learn them, drawed them until his arm was sore and he was sure he knew them. Light gathered, slowly. The left corner on the door was the first to be illuminated. Then, carefully, first pinpricks and then hesitant fingers of light followed until finally, it reached his bed. Harry watched as tiny particles of dust danced into the sun and read on. 

_HAGALAZ, for destructive forces of nature, should you need it, Isa to hold up your enemies (carve it on a object and throw it behind), call out the Odin- Rune to ask the migthy god to help you on your quest (even the Isles have forgotten the One Before).  
  
These will protect you, where-ever you go, but you'll need to hide them, my son, (and I can barely believe this, seeing you happily terrorize our cat with not a care in the world, that you'll one day become the Saviour of the wizarding world. I can tell Dumbledore wouldn't like it either; he prefers to let the grown ups do the fighting, but Fate isn't so easily thwarted. Sometimes he looks at you with such a deep sadness... he probably knows something we don't. We only know Voldemort_ might _come for you, but not the why and the how. Dumbledore keeps his cards closer to his chest than ever, but you can -and should- trust him, if he is still alive when you read this (I can't imagine him dead but you never know)._ _Now, with that written and sealed, I can focus on the many, many other things I want to tell you. I heard you would be the one to destroy Voldemort, you or Neville. We entrusted Peter to be the Secret-Keeper, on Sirius suggestion. Ever since, he has been even more fidgety then usual. He keeps saying he's afraid he'll break under torture and that he doesn't want to die. We all try to reassure him, but James is too impatient with him and Sirius in general too angry. Boys... they can be so insensitive sometimes. For them, it's easy to die for each other; they do not fear it as he does. Remus is the only one who has the patience and gentleness to truly help him, but he isn't around often, spying on the werewolves and all that. James would gladly have entrusted it to him, but his Occlumency isn't good enough yet and we're really afraid Voldemort will see it in his mind (although he's working hard at it, bless him). I'm sad to say Sirius doesn't entirely trust him anymore, as Remus has more reason then most to turn (doesn't help that Sirius can't read him anymore). Although James got so mad at him for saying that that several pots shattered, he nonetheless agreed to tell Remus, too, that Sirius was the Secret-Keeper. They seem to have made up since, after a few shots of Firewiskey._ (Harry could just imagine it, them laying on a black sofa laughing uproariously) 

_I'm afraid I really must stop now._

_For always your mother,  
  
Lily_

_PS. Your father's letter will arrive shortly._   
  


Harry looked up. The tent was filled with light by now, illuminating Hermione's sleeping form. A cold mist had creeped under the tent flap and he shivered uncontrollably when he tried to get up. Wisely, he decided to leave Hermione be -God knows she could use the sleep- and went to make breakfast, despite the cold draugh. 

Outside, there was e sort of 'ghost-mist'. He could see clearly, but he could also see a mist-that-wasn't. A echo of a mist. Like there was _supposed_ to be mist instead, a good thick fog, but it didn't affect him. Near the cold fireplace, there was a boy. And then Harry blinked, and there wasn't.


	2. The boy-that-wasn't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Kari Ragnarsson managed to end up in my story! He is the creation of Catherine Fisher, of the Snow-Walker series, not mine.

Harry grabbed his wand and shot a spell at the boy. It went clean through him. The boy, who had Malfoywhite hair and old-fashioned clothes and yet couldn't be a ghost, didn't even blink. He just sat down on a fallen tree. 

He reminded Harry rather uncomfortably of the memory of Tom Riddle, though he didn't look like him in the slightest. If it wasn't for the different face, he would have thought it was a clone -or memory- of a Malfoy, but that seemed highly unlikely. 

If the boy had been a death eater they'd be dead already, he thought. Unbidden, words entered his head: _I bear a message for Harry James Potter, from his father James Potter._

Harry froze. 

'Who are you?' he whispered furiously.

_My name was Kari Ragnarsson. You've been me._

'Why are you here?'

_The man your father was entrusted me with it, when he passed on._

'Who was he?'

_Thorkil Harraldson, a companion of mine, for a while. Your mother used to be Jessa Horolfdaughter. She stayed longer._

'And I used to be... you.'

_I was fated to kill my mother Gudrun, the Snow-Walker who took over the land._

'I'm sensing a pattern here.'

The boy -Kari, Harry reminded himself- sent him a wry smile.

 _You've got some experience._

He disappeared. In his wake was a letter. 


	3. Mountains, Crows, and a Murder

Harry looked at the letter. It was also old, and vaguely bloodstained, and it was sealed with the crustiest seal Harry had ever seen. He put it in his pocket.

He would read it later, after tea and toast. Not that they had much toast left, he though, but he desired to have a semblance of normalcy after the night he had had and he was sure Hermione would appreciate it. 

He used the last of the tea (Earl Grey that looked and tasted the least like Earl Grey he had had in a long time) and quite possibly the last of the bread and quite certainly the last of the butter (although it had gone off and didn't taste very much like butter at all), and by the time he was done eating and looked at Hermione opposite him he felt quite certain even Azkaban had better food then they had, but he kept it down and his mood had improved significantly since Hermione had taken over the Horcrux. 

They needed to steal more food though. 

But first, they packed the tent (Harry used the opportunity to take the runes with him), and Disapparated. They landed on a dark mountain with pine-trees at the back and a snowy plain in front of them.

It was freezing.

In the dark, there was a village. And in the village, there were two crows.

Although they weren't the _only_ birds to be there, let alone the only two crows, these were very _particular_ crows. For one, they had a goal. 

This is very rare in birds already, but it was also a long-term goal.

Most birds, if they even have goals, have short-term ones; get the most food, the prettiest bird, get kids, kick them out, that's about it. 

_These_ ones were looking for kids, but _not_ of birds. And not to eat either, which was even more surprising.

And secondly, they were Huginn and Muginn, Mind and Memory, belonging to Odin (though they'd never admit to it, preferring the narrative that they simply _choose_ to stay with him because he had the best snacks) and they _weren't_ bickering. This was a rarity in itself, because even these exceptionally clever birds bickered almost as much as they breathed, but now they were bored and _not bickering,_ which was really the most unusual thing of all. Below them, there was a red head of hair. There was probably more to it, but the crows saw only the upper bit, which was hair. It would make a lovely nest, if the boy had laid still and been paler But that would be wrong.Currently, the boy was moving, and the crows followed. He was also the reason they weren't bickering, or discussing his lovely hair and probably tasty eyes and so on. The boy would have heard them if they did, and they didn't want that. They wanted him to end up with his mate, not dead. The problem was that they had absolutely no clue where they were, the two kids who they had to find and been forbidden to eat under any circumstances.

Far away, in a darkened hallway in Godrics Hallow, there was a hand, and it held a knife. It was a remarkable steady hand, considering it's bearer. The knife was covered with Nagini's venom, so it didn't glisten in the moonlight -not that there was any to glisten _in_ \- and the hand (Voldemort's hand, a mere whisper in the darkness, which was also the users nickname, often spoken of with a mixture of contempt and awe), which was usually a bright silver, had dulled so you could barely see the handle. Had there been any more light, you might have seen a small man, no bigger then a child. In fact, you might have thought him a child, until you saw his grin, and his greyed hair, that was a bit too long and shaggy, with bald spots in it.His clothes smelled like he hadn't changed them in a year or three, ever since he escaped death in the nick of time, and the smell might betray him, but he didn't think so. More likely, you wouldn't have seen him at all, save as a shadow - or a rat. The man was -as he had been reminded by the ruins not to far from there- not brave enough to stand up for what he knew was right, but he was brave enough to do what needed to be done to stay alive (and as Dumbledore had said while he was in Ron's pocket it takes a special kind of bravery to stand up to your friends)and his hand was ruthless enough to do the rest (Brave didn't always mean good, after all). Peter Pettigrew did not know who he was sent to kill (although he could take a guess, if he cared to), and he did not care, but he knew it was a woman and he couldn't slit her throat and be done with it, and he couldn't steal anything but would be rewarded handsomely by his lord, and that was enough (that, and the promise of being strangled if he strayed from his orders).

A old woman descended the stairs and walked past him. So fast was the knife between her ribs, that she didn't realize she was dead and her ghost continued walking out the door.

Then the boy-man was gone, and the hall was empty once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 121\. I rede thee, Loddfafnir! | and hear thou my rede,-  
> Profit thou hast if thou hearest,  
> Great thy gain if thou learnest:  
> Be never the first | to break with thy friend  
> The bond that holds you both;  
> Care eats the heart | if thou canst not speak  
> To another all thy thought. - English poetic Edda

The night had been bitter. Some drops of water that had fallen had frozen to the floor, and the ashes of the fire were frozen, hard as stone. Harry and Hermione had, after much deliberation, agreed to share a sleeping-bag. Now they were awake, albeit reluctantly. Tears had frozen to their faces, and the food was gone. 

Snow had been blown under the tent-flap; some of it had reached the feet-end of the sleeping bag and melted on their feet. An icy wind seemed to cut through the tent and the bag as if it wasn't even there. 

Harry's wand lie next to his sleeping bag, but to get it, he would have to get his hand out of the bag and then his hand would surely freeze. Hermione was in a similar situation.

So they stayed down and hoped it would warm up enough, as they observed the flap opening and closing in the wind. It seemed as if the tent could be blown away any moment and they could only hope to be blown away with it. 

For a few seconds Harry thought he saw Kari fly over him in a new gust of wind, but that was probably his imagination. 

_Finally,_ he resolved to get his wand for a warming spell, at the possible cost of his fingers. It seemed a good deal, at the time.

He didn't lose any fingers, which allowed him to perform one. Eventually.

Then, they began to plan.

They decided to go to Godric's Hollow, to visit Harry's parents and bring them flowers and such, although they were long dead and couldn't appreciate it anymore, and in the faint hopes of finding the sword of Gryffindor at Bathilda Bagshot's (even if she may or may not be gaga, as Harry thought. Dumbledore had always been assumed crazy as well, so maybe it wasn't that bad)  
  
They would Apparate to the village under cover of darkness, but not before they ensured a batch of Polyjuice to disguise themselves. 

Somehow, they managed to apparate to more-or-less the right place, landing on a lovely, snow-covered lane. On both sides there were cottages of varying sizes and cosines; some were filled with so many decorations Harry wondered how anyone actually _lived_ there, some were dark and empty and many were somewhat inbetween, but none were completely the same as others. The lane curved softly to the left, winding through the village's head and curving away into the distance as a shy maiden. There was no-one on it. In the windows Harry saw families sitting together; as he watched a man received a dvd, while a small kid ripped open his box with a game in it, beaming as bright as their christmas-tree. He moved on when a dog began to bark, and noticed Hermione had waited for him, a few steps ahead.   
  
'It must be Christmas,' he said, feeling rather numb, all of a sudden. 'Isn't it?'   
  
'I think so, yeah,' Hermione agreed.   
  
Harry looked at the village's square. There were a handful of shops (none that would be open), a small post office and there, brightly lit, a church. It wasn't a big church, by any means, but it seemed to have a certain elegance, a certain... regality.   
He almost missed the pub until its doors opened. Drunken laughter spilled out, and a snatch of a song, seeming to involve Berenburg, whatever that was. There were more people here: slipping on the slippery snow, kissing under a streetlight, picking up the tune of the carol, or just humming to themselves while walking, together, to a dark alley or other undisturbed location.   
  
'They - they'll be in the graveyard behind it, won't they?' Hermione interrupted his thoughts, her voice a bit higher then usual. Harry nodded, feeling a painful lurch in his stomach. Suddenly, now that the opportunity to see them -their graves- was near (as near as he would ever get, he reminded himself), he wasn't sure if he actually _wanted_ to see them. Hermione took his hand and gently led him towards it. Harry wondered if his parents had even been religious and realized that, for all he had been told, there was _so much_ he would never know. And then the statue changed. From a small, graffitied obelisk, it transformed into a statue of three people; a man with messy hair (Harry's hand went to the back of his hair reflexively) and glasses and a woman holding a baby. _Of course,_ Harry thought dimly. _The wizards would have their own monument._  
He kept looking, kept gazing at himself and his mother with the kind eyes and the pretty face, kept coming closer. Seeing himself as a happy baby felt really... strange, somehow. He had never realized there'd be a statue of them, or any place dedicated to their memory.   
'C'mon,' he said at last, looking back at Hermione. The graveyard was small and homey, as much as a graveyard could be. The snow -here undisturbed and glinting- softened the edge of the stones, and the warm light coming from the church helped them navigate a fair bit. The only things that seemed out of place were a noticeboard full of posters of people who had gone missing, and some creepy statues of angels. They began looking through the graves, paying little attention, until Harry saw something moving from the corner of his eyes, or thought he did anyway. He looked up sharply and his hand went to his wand, but he couldn't see what had disturbed him. All he saw was a crow -that must've drawn his attention- and one of those statues of angels with their hands in front of their eyes, as though weeping, they seemed fond of here. Could be a churchy thing or a wizardthing, he thought. Hermione would know. The crow glared at him balefully, and then there was a lot of fluttering as more crows came, soaring around and surrounding them. Just when Harry began to wonder if they were all death-eaters in disguise, Hermione called out to him. 'Harry, here!'   
  
Hermione was two rows of tombstones away; he had to wade back to her, his heart positively banging in his chest. Had those angels always had their hands away from the face? He could've _sworn_ they had all had their hands in front of their face... Nothing seemed to move as he approached Hermione.   
  
'Is it — ?'  
  
'No, but look!'   
  
She pointed to the dark stone. Harry stooped down and saw, upon the frozen, lichen-spotted granite, the words KENDRA DUMBLEDORE and, a short way below her dates of birth and death, AND HER DAUGHTER ARIANA. There was also a quotation:  
  
_Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also_.  
  
So Rita Skeeter and Muriel had got some of their facts right. The Dumbledore family had indeed lived here, and part of it had died here. Harry felt almost sick at the thought that Dumbledore hadn't cared enough to ever even mention that he had lived there, that he had had a family, that they'd _died_ here. He had never bothered to visit, or even cared enough to take care of their _grave_ , for Christs' sake. But then, that wasn't his job, was it? Harry had never thought about it either, that he had had a past and wasn't just born with a long beard and a twinkle in his eye... neither of them had ever really mentioned that idea, it had always been _Harry._ Harry who told him things he never even told his best friends... Harry felt he had made himself... well, vulnerable, and in return Dumbledore had given him _nothing_. It wasn't _fair!_  
 _  
_Almost immediately he felt childish for thinking that way, for expecting that, but...  
He realized Hermione was looking at him, and was glad for the darkness, that it hid his face, even as it may hide their enemies.   
  
'Are you sure he never mentioned — ?' Hermione began, sounding hesitant, unsure their former headmaster could have ever hidden this from them, from _Harry._ Harry, though, was positive he'd remember it if they had ever discussed it, any of it.  
  
'No,' he replied curtly. 'Let’s keep looking,' and he turned away, wishing he had not seen the stone.   
  
'Here!' cried Hermione again a few moments later from out of the darkness. 'Oh no, sorry! I thought it said Potter.'  
  
She was rubbing at a crumbling, mossy stone, gazing down at it, a little frown on her face.  
  
'Harry, come back a moment.'  
  
He did not want to be sidetracked again, beginning to like it less and less. Those angels and creepy crows made him feel trapped, and he was uncomfortably reminded of the missing person posters on the board at the beginning, and only grudgingly made his way back through the snow toward her.

'What?'  
  
'Look at this!'   
  
She sounded just like when she found a rare old book in the library, he noted, a bit irritated despite himself.   
  
The grave was extremely old, weathered so that Harry could hardly make out the name. Hermione showed him the symbol beneath it.  
  
'Harry, that’s the mark in the book!'   
  
He peered at the place she indicated: The stone was so worn that it was hard to make out what was engraved there, though there did seem to be a triangular mark beneath the nearly illegible name.  
  
'Yeah . . . it could be. . . .' he muttered doubtfully, glaring at a particularly close crow. For some reason, he expected them to gather in a cloud and attack any second now, but for some reason so far all they had done was shit on the angels. One angel was hit hard by it, as it was, for some reason, made to look - if he didn't know better he'd think it glared- up into the sky with its mouth open. As he watched, the mouth overflowed a bit, making it look like the angel drooled.   
  
Hermione lit her wand and pointed it at the name on the headstone.  
  
'It says Ig — Ignotus, I think. . . .'   
  
'I’m going to keep looking for my parents, all right?' Harry told her, a slight edge to his voice, and he set off again, leaving her crouched beside the old grave.  
  
The headstone was only two rows behind Kendra and Ariana’s. It was made of white marble, just like Dumbledore’s tomb, and this made it easy to read, as it seemed to shine in the dark. Harry did not need to kneel or even approach very close to it to make out the words engraved upon it.  
  
JAMES POTTER  
  
LILY POTTER  
  
BORN 27 MARCH 1960  
  
DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981  
  
BORN 30 JANUARY 1960  
  
DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981  
  
Harry wanted to say the best words that ever existed, but he couldn't seem to find them. Not that it mattered, Hermione reminded him. They would be happy with anything. Harry didn't argue, although he privately disagreed.  
  


So they went, and uttered incomplete words and conjured flowers and in the end, it was like any other wake, except _sligthly_ more depressing, perhaps, by it being on Chrismas Eve where most went to their families... as had Harry, in a way. They were gone. The empty words could not disguise the fact that his parents’ moldering remains lay beneath snow and stone, indifferent, unknowing. And tears came before he could stop them, boiling hot then instantly freezing on his face, and what was the point in wiping them off or pretending? He let them fall, his lips pressed hard together, looking down at the thick snow hiding from his eyes the place where the last of Lily and James lay, bones now, surely, or dust, not knowing or caring that their living son stood so near, his heart still beating, alive because of their sacrifice and close to wishing, at this moment, that he was sleeping under the snow with them.They discovered some other graves as well (it happens on graveyards, if you idle along instead of going straight to your favourite and staying there). At one end , there was a rustling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos! Y'all made my day! If its not too much of a bother, I'd like some constructive feedback as well. I'm def planning on improving the final scène, but apart from that, is there anything else?
> 
> Heh. I expected it to be no more then a week but here we are... its gonna take a lot of time y'all. I'm sorry, I really am. I've got a internship right now (weird, right?) and am in general busy nowadays.
> 
> Also, some sentences come from the book. If my memory serves, one of them notes it's Christmas (here it's Harry), most of the village description is from the book in the basics, but I did try to spice it up a bit. Just... assume that when it comes to this piece, most of it comes from the relevant chapter in the book, but mistakes are mine. I think the only new thing is the description of the villagers, the giftscéne, the specific song from the pub, the more detailed description of the cottages, the crows and the Weeping Angels (belonging to whoever invented them). Oh, and the crows. Probably. Some bits are literally taken from the book, for which I apologize.  
> Especially the "They were gone. The empty words could not disguise the fact that his parents’ moldering remains lay beneath snow and stone, indifferent, unknowing. And tears came before he could stop them, boiling hot then instantly freezing on his face, and what was the point in wiping them off or pretending? He let them fall, his lips pressed hard together, looking down at the thick snow hiding from his eyes the place where the last of Lily and James lay, bones now, surely, or dust, not knowing or caring that their living son stood so near, his heart still beating, alive because of their sacrifice and close to wishing, at this moment, that he was sleeping under the snow with them." bit. Pretty sure that's all Rowling. I'm sorry! I just can't improve on perfection! I know y'all didn't come here to read the chapter from the book with a bunch of crows and angels thrown in, and I *promise* I'll change them when I can! Which is going to involve reading the book to figure out what I remembered, note them down, and change those specific bits in, well, my imperfect style. The whole graves bits, really. I have a feeling none of that is original, its all just remembered, mixed, at best elaborated on. I'm sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Who is this person?' Harry asked, pushing the picture forward.
> 
> She peered at it, then up at Harry.
> 
> 'Do you know who this is?' he repeated. 'This man? Do you know him? What’s he called?'   
> “What is it?” he asked as he reached the dressing table
> 
> “There,” she said, pointing at the shapeless mass. 
> 
> 'Yes...' she hissed, taunting him. 'Yes... hold you...hold you...' is straight from the book with no added bits (except for the 'taunting him')

In the darkest corner, in-between two hedges, stood a woman. Or at least, something in the vague shape of a woman. From afar -if you could even see it at all-, it looked somewhat woman-like, not unlike how you sometimes see a shape in a cloud, or a potato, or toast, and then you blink and it's gone. This _was_ a woman though, no matter how well-hidden it was in layer upon layer of sweaters, shawls and clothes of varying size and thickness. If you were to come _very_ close, you might smell the find smell of rotting things giving birth to new things, but if you did she'd probably kill you. As she had done before.

Harry and Hermione didn't see her, as she moved to the road, or at least she thought so, though there were some anxious mutterings and the girl went for her wand. 

She sniffed, flicking the air with her tongue. They were afraid, nervous, sad. Nothing interesting there. Her Master whispered; _Not now, Nagini._

 _I know_ , she replied. 

Her opponents went to the road and she hid in the Potter-ruins, not far from there. 

'...Shouldn't have written on the sign!' the girl said, indignant, but Harry beamed. 

_Now._

She approached them, cursing this hobbling body not at all like her elegant snake one, trapped like being stuck in a old skin, half-removed with a twitch _just so,_ yet cloying and clinging. 

Harry stopped mid-sentence, clearly having seen her. Now that she focused, something silvery seemed to surround them, strangely reminding her of flickering moonlight in water, and shadows and blood. Was she not supposed to have seen them? Should she have waited? 

_Not important_. 

She raised her hand and beckoned, exactly as she had been ordered to do, the human gesture still strange and unfamiliar. 

'Are you Bathilda?' Harry asked her.

She nodded. She was Bathilda to them, and Nagini my dear to her Master, and those were not contradictions to her. 

As they made to follow her she turned and led them to Bathilda's house, and fumbled the key into the hole. As they walked past her she could smell their disgust, but they did not seem at all suspicious, making her all but wonder if all humans treated their old and sick this way, letting them rot away in their burrows.   
  
She awkwardly lit the candles, and could smell their pity, until at last the boy offered to help her. She watched him. _I never need candles_ , she wanted to say. _Don't need 'em. It's your pityful eyes that need them, but I am a proud snake who survived the Dark Woods, and their Vengeful Shadows, where all my broodsiblings failed._ But she didn't. The girl - Hermione, was it? Names were no matter, her master hissed at the back of her mind - lit the fire for her. Kind, for humans.  
  
'Miss Bagshot?' the boy called out, sounding as if he had called her several times now. She looked up at him. He held a picture, of another human, pale and blond.   
  
'Who is this person?' Harry asked, pushing the picture forward.  
  
She peered at it, then up at Harry.  
  
'Do you know who this is?' he repeated. 'This man? Do you know him? What’s he called?'   
A flash of emotion: _Grindelwald!_ hissed with contempt. Then it was gone.   
She pointed to the hallway, then at herself, Harry, and the ceiling. Harry told Hermione he thought she wanted him to go upstairs with her. Hermione moved as to come with them. _Do not let her come!_  
She shook her head, as hard and as fast as she could. This elicited a sharp and high sound from the girl ('Why?!' she could taste the distrust behind it. The girl suspected. She would have to move swiftly). Her ears still ringing, she shuffled around Harry to the door, trusting he would follow. He did. She led him to Bathilda's bedroom, and stepped closer in the darkness, closing the door.   
'You are Potter?' she hissed, finally free to _speak_. Within seconds, she'd be free of this human _cage._ She stared at the light of his wand while remembering, as best she could, the instructions to leave this body. The boy spoke again, this time in her Masters voice. 'Hold him!'   
  
Then he swayed, and asked in a loud voice; 'Have you got anything for me?' This was too easy.   
'Over there,' she whispered, pointing to a dressing table.   
  
He edged towards it, not taking her eyes off her (not _that_ easy then, she thought. Good. She wanted a challenge, not obedient dinner - Bathilda had sufficed for that.   
  
“What is it?” he asked as he reached the dressing table  
  
“There,” she said, pointing at the shapeless mass. He looked away, just for a instant, and she leapt out with joy and surprise (had he not guessed after her master had spoken through him? How stupid _was_ he? Was he even a threat?). He turned quickly though, and he raised his wand, but he wasn't fast enough and she _bit_ in his arm, barely restraining her poison (just hold him), until his wand shot upwards, out of his hand, hitting his ribs with her tail, so he fell into the dresser table and the smelly laundry. She made to do it again, but he narrowly avoided it. The next time, she managed it, curling around him. Downstairs was a noise, but she ignored it.   
'No!'  
'Yes...' she hissed, taunting him. 'Yes... hold you...hold you...'  
He tried to use a spell, but without his puny want it was useless, of course. Then the door burst open, in a rain of splinters. The girl stormed in, curse on her lips, and in the process of not being obliterated she had to let him go. She struck, but the girl avoided it. Behind her, the window shattered. Trashing and spreading out ( _Freedom!_ her whole being cheered as she stretched, muscles relaxing from being coiled up so long), she felt herself being flung upwards and, before she fully landed, in the midst of glass and wood and, worst of all, the foul-smelling laundry, and her lunge hit nothing but air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wanton snake cruelty, PETA would have a field day with this. I actually like snakes, but, well.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am ashamed to say the dialogue is all JKR's (but, well, I think it'll still be interesting because its from a different POV)

Hermione Apparated them in mid-air, Voldemorts shriek of frustration still ringing in her ears. Harry's elbow nearly slicked out of her hand, so sweaty was it. Upon landing he fell backwards, thrashing and his eyes... his eyes looked like he was dead already. She managed to lift him on the lowest bunk with help of a Hover Charm, cleaned the wound and then... there was nothing she could do. He moaned, sobbed and thrashed, and _she just couldn't help him._ And then the cackling started. At that point, he had been unconscious for some time, so it scared her to death, when in-between moans he suddenly started a high, triumphant cackling! If she didn't know better, she'd have thought the scar grew bigger and a angrier red as well, but that was impossible, she reminded herself. There was a glint around his neck, and she realized he was still wearing the Horcrux. Slowly, carefully, she reached out and tried to get it off him. It didn't budge. She pulled harder, but it seemed glued to his skin, and she cursed how little research was published on Horcruxpossesion. Ginny hadn't been possessed after being separated from the Diary (or maybe she still was, driving her to get it back?), but that one had been relatively weak. She stopped pulling and tugging when she realized it could hurt Harry, and the last thing he needed was _another_ wound. He lay quite still now, and she waited until she was fairly certain he would stay that way for the foreseeable future. Then, very, _very_ carefully, she lifted the Horcrux as much as she could with one hand, and shot a Severing Spell at it. It loosened a bit, and she did it again until it was loose enough to be removed.   
  
' _Aquamenti,_ ' she muttered, after she put it in the bag ( _was that far enough away?)._ Harry barely reacted to the water, but his mouth hung open a bit, so she hoped enough water came in that he wouldn't dry out. Just to have something to do, she began sponging his face, until he began to moan. 

'No...'  
  
'Harry,' she tried to soothe him.'You're safe now, Harrry. It's okay. We made it.'  
  
'No...'

She began to get frantic.

'Harry, it’s all right, you’re all right!'  
  
'No... I dropped it... I dropped it...' _Dropped what?_

'Harry, it’s okay, wake up, wake up!'  
  
Somehow, it worked. He opened his eyes. Not like earlier, when he was clearly still... gone, but completely lucid.   
  
'Harry,' she whispered, barely daring to hope. 'Do you feel all — all right?' _Stupid question._ Of course, _he wouldn't be alright.  
  
_ 'Yes,' he said, and then. 'We got away.'   
  
Well, maybe he was. He tended to be alright after dealing with things that no-one else would be alright with, but still...  
  
'Yes,' she agreed. 'I had to use a Hover Charm to get you into your bunk, I couldn’t lift you. You’ve been . . . Well, you haven’t been quite . . .' she stopped, not sure how to explain herself.   
  
'You’ve been ill,' she settled on. 'Quite ill.'  
  
'How long ago did we leave?'  
  
'Hours ago. It’s nearly morning,' she said, only fully realizing it now.   
  
'And I’ve been . . . what, unconscious?'   
  
Well. She really wasn't sure how much to tell him. She had seen the bags under his eyes after Arthur got hurt and he saw it happen, and it had taken Ginny to snap him out of it.   
  
'Not exactly,' said Hermione uncomfortably. 'You’ve been shouting and moaning and . . . things,' she added, carefully. 'I couldn’t get the Horcrux off you. It was stuck, stuck to your chest. You’ve got a mark; I’m sorry, I had to use a Severing Charm to get it away. The snake bit you too, but I’ve cleaned the wound and put some dittany on it. . . .'   
  
He looked down at his chest, but gave no comment beyond asking where the Horcrux was. Then he looked up at her, and she could guess what he would say next. And ideed, he did.   
  
'We shouldn’t have gone to Godric’s Hollow. It’s my fault, it’s all my fault, Hermione, I’m sorry.'   
  
Right. Because everyone knows that when Harry bloody Potter decided something, Hermione was suddenly incapable of deciding otherwise. Still, she tried to comfort him.   
  
'It’s not your fault. I wanted to go too; I really thought Dumbledore might have left the sword there for you.'  
  
'Yeah, well . . . we got that wrong, didn’t we?'  
  
'What happened, Harry? What happened when she took you upstairs? Was the snake hiding somewhere? Did it just come out and kill her and attack you?' she tried to distract him.  
  
'No,' he said. 'She was the snake . . . or the snake was her . . . all along.' Well, that cleared things up. She wondered if Harry and Ron felt this all the time when she attempted to explain things. 

'W-what?'  
  
He closed his eyes.   
  
'Bathilda must’ve been dead a while. The snake was . . . was inside her. You-Know-Who put it there in Godric’s Hollow, to wait. You were right. He knew I’d go back.' Well, that made sense, she thought. It was the most logical place to look with the limited information they had. It was only a matter of time before they'd have come. Maybe if they had just waited a few months, Bathilda would be decomposed enough... suddenly she got a vivid image of the snake with bits and pieces of Bathilda hanging on and felt sick.  
  
'The snake was inside her?' She resolutely _didn't_ think how the snake would have entered Bathilda.  
  
'Lupin said there would be magic we’d never imagined,' Harry said. 'She didn’t want to talk in front of you, because it was Parseltongue, all Parseltongue, and I didn’t realize, but of course I could understand her. Once we were up in the room, the snake sent a message to You-Know-Who, I heard it happen inside my head, I felt him get excited, he said to keep me there . . . and then . . .'   
  
She should've _seen_ it, she thought. She should never have let Harry go up there, she should've _followed,_ if she had been just a bit _faster_...   
  
'“. . . she changed, changed into the snake, and attacked.'  
  
He looked down at the puncture marks.  
  
'It wasn’t supposed to kill me, just keep me there till You-Know-Who came.' Suddenly he sat up and threw the covers back. 

'Harry, no, I’m sure you ought to rest!'  
  
'You’re the one who needs sleep. No offense, but you look terrible. I’m fine. I’ll keep watch for a while. Where’s my wand?'  
  
 _No... I dropped it...  
  
_ Had he dropped his wand? She hadn't checked either, stupid, she should've.   
  
She looked down, and saw he had held onto it as they had gone back. Then her stomach sank. His wand was broken. It must've been her Blasting Curse rebounding... she wouldn't have had that if she had been a better witch... mutely she looked back at him and felt tears start to come up.   
  
'Where’s my wand, Hermione?' Harry repeated. She couldn't answer.   
  
Harry repeated his question and, with a heavy heart, she reached down beside the bed and mutely held it out to him. He took it, and she was reminded of a wounded bird she had cared for until it died. She had cradled it the same way as Harry did now.   
  
Then he held out the wand to Hermione.  
  
'Mend it. Please.'  
  
'Harry, I don’t think, when it’s broken like this —' She really didn't want to offer false hope, especially as wands were a exception to things that could be repaired. She would've told him wands were _complicated,_ core interacting with wood into a unique mixture that was more then just wood and feathers that could be repaired... but she realized he wouldn't want to hear it. He wanted to believe she could do the impossible - and for him, she had to try.  
  
'Please, Hermione, try!'  
  
'R-Reparo.'  
  
The dangling half of the wand resealed itself. Harry held it up.  
  
'Lumos!'   
  
The wand sparked feebly, then went out. Harry pointed it at Hermione.  
  
'Expelliarmus!'  
  
Hermione’s wand gave a little jerk, but did not leave her hand. The feeble attempt at magic was too much for Harry’s wand, which split into two again. He stared at it, looking aghast.  
  
'Harry,” Hermione whispered, now crushed with guilt. 'I’m so, so sorry. I think it was me. As we were leaving, you know, the snake was coming for us, and so I cast a Blasting Curse, and it rebounded everywhere, and it must have — must have hit —' she couldn't finish.   
  
'It was an accident,' said Harry, sounding hollow. 'We’ll — we’ll find a way to repair it.'  
  
'Harry, I don’t think we’re going to be able to,' said Hermione, hot tears trickling down her face. 'Remember . . . remember Ron? When he broke his wand, crashing the car? It was never the same again, he had to get a new one.'  
  
'Well,” he said, in a matter-of-fact voice, 'well, I’ll just borrow yours for now, then. While I keep watch.'  
  
Hermione handed over her wand, and he left her sitting beside his bed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I hope you all liked it (I've got to admit, I cheered at the kudo's) and that its been a long time since reading the books. Hence, why I will re-read the seventh before continuing (little compares to hearing the soothing voice of Stephen Fry describing Harry's dead). It might take a while but I expect no more than a week. Sorry for the inconvenience!


End file.
